


Five Secrets Worth Spilling

by longwhitecoats



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Kink Negotiation, Multi, Pony Play, Sex Toys, Sex Work Roleplay, Sexual Roleplay, Trust Kink, Virginity Roleplay, d/s dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-14
Updated: 2017-01-31
Packaged: 2018-05-26 15:47:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6245968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/longwhitecoats/pseuds/longwhitecoats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve helps Natasha with some secrets she's been harboring.</p><p>ETA: I'm declaring this one finished.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“That was fucking great,” Steve says, rolling over to toss the condom in the trash. Natasha peels off her latex-free gloves and balls them up, following suit.

“Three pointer,” she says throatily. She lets her arm fall across Steve’s naked chest. The feeling of skin on skin is nice. “Mmm,” Natasha hums. “That _was_ pretty great.”

“Do they not let you swear in SHIELD basic training or something?” Steve says. “You swear less than any fucking soldier I’ve met.”

Natasha’s mouth quirks up. “What can I say? We’re not all as filthy as you, Rogers.”

He grunts. “More’s the fuckin’ pity.” Steve bends his neck down to kiss her forehead. Sex with Steve has been more frequent lately; she finds his simplicity easy to sink into. It’s not comforting, exactly—Natasha’s never liked _comfort_ sex, which always seemed to have too many mind games and insecurities hidden underneath. It’s just frank and easy, straightforwardly fun in a way that’s hard to find. Steve likes to fuck and be fucked and he’s not shy.

“You wish I was filthier?” Natasha says after a moment, lazily picking up the conversational thread.

Steve purses his lips, considering. “Well. I wish _everyone_ was filthier,” he says. “Except—”

“ _Tony_ ,” they say together, and they both laugh. Natasha shakes her head. “That’s a high bar anyway.”

They’re quiet, and Natasha feels herself drowsing, but then Steve answers seriously: “I guess I do wish I knew what you fantasized about.”

She opens her eyes. Steve is studying her face. “That’s a secret,” she says automatically, not sure if she means it as a joke.

“Sure, okay,” Steve says, and shrugs. But he’s still looking at her.

Natasha’s mouth twists. It’s not like she keeps this stuff a secret on purpose. She keeps _everything_ a secret unless it’s important not to. And Steve knows what she likes—how hard to pound into her, where to lick her throat, what kind of too-tight sweaty undershirts to wear to drive her crazy with want in the SHIELD gym. So it’s not like she’s had a reason to tell him this.

But things have been different between them for a while, she realizes. Maybe since they took down the Triskelion. Since they sat in Sam’s den and Steve casually told her he’d trust her with his life, and then he went ahead and did it later that day. Some part of her began unwinding then, and it hasn’t really stopped.

Some part of her _wants_ to tell him. Just because she can.

“What kind of stuff are we talking?” she says slowly, throatily. Steve’s eyebrows go up—god, he has a million tells. He’s trying to stay cool, but she can see he’s excited to be getting an answer. Someday she’s really gotta play strip poker with him and fleece the spandex right off him. “Are you just hoping for something a little naughty? Spanking and schoolgirl outfits?”

“Screw _naughty_ ,” Steve says. “I want the hard shit.”

She can’t help it—she giggles. “Captain America likes the edgy stuff, huh?”

“You fuckin’ bet I do,” he says, and his hand softly dips between her legs. She takes a sharp breath inward as he begins to work her clit—a little sore, but yeah, it feels good. “Lay it on me, Romanoff.”

“Ah,” she gasps, rocking into his hand. “Well,” she says, “there’s the spy fantasy.”

“Bringing your work home,” Steve says. “I’m surprised. Go on.” He’s sliding his fingers up and down her cunt now, just like she likes, more pressure than focused touch.

She groans. “It’s about Clint,” she says. “Had it for—ah—a long time.”

“Yeah?”

“We’re on a mission,” she says, giving herself over to the fantasy. She imagines it: a hotel somewhere on the Mediterranean, maybe, old and grand but past its glory days. The room would reek of smoke. “He needs to buy the client somehow. There’s no time for a briefing. He trades me for the intel. Whores me out.” Her voice catches on the word _whore_. It’s been levelled at her as a slur, which she finds boring; but in this context, it thrills her. She feels rather than hears Steve groan in response.

“Hmm, I’m into that too,” Steve says. “Sam and I play like that sometimes. He makes a damn fine john.”

“I bet,” Natasha gasps, clamping her thighs down hard around Steve’s hand and starting to ride it. It’s one of the perks of fucking Steve—she doesn’t have to hold her strength back, because he can take pretty much whatever she wants to dish out. “But in this fantasy, Clint’s not the john. The client is... a surprise.”

“Yeah?” Steve says. “What’s sexy about that?”

This— _this_ is hard to say. Natasha feels a surge of heat in her belly that has nothing to do with Steve’s hand between her legs. It’s fear, and it’s the arousal that comes from fear; it’s the sensation of trusting someone with a real secret. She doesn’t feel it often, but Steve is probably the person who most brings it out in her, besides Clint. The feeling of trust is physically palpable with Steve, as if a string were tugging from her bellybutton in towards him.

“I like the idea of Clint choosing who I’ll fuck,” she says. “Having that kind of control over me.”

“Knowing something you don’t,” Steve murmurs, getting it. “That must be rare for you.”

She nods. Her breathing is speeding up, and she grabs Steve’s arm, digging her nails in. “Faster, Steve—” She can see it, Clint sitting in the shadowy corner of the hotel room, watching her get fucked by some meaningless suit, knowing that he did this to her, he chose this for her—

“ _Fuck_ ,” she says, coming hard against Steve’s hand. “Oh, fuck, fuck,” she breathes, riding it out. It’s long and sweet this time, the kind of orgasm that ripples through her thighs.

“ _There_ we go,” Steve says, and gives a satisfied sigh. “I _knew_ you had some swear words in there.”

“Basic SHIELD training,” Natasha says, opening her legs again so Steve can pull his hand out. It’s dark red from the pressure of her thighs. “How to hide your swears in your snatch.”

“Snatch,” Steve says appreciatively. “That’s a classic.”

She settles against him, and this time he turns his body into hers a bit: ready for sleep, satified. Steve telegraphs his feelings so plainly. She grins, tucking her face into his chest.

“Well,” he says, “thanks for sharing.”

“Mmm,” she says. The feeling won’t leave her—that tug in her belly, the hot fear and excitement. It’s the feeling of wanting something else, of knowing that she hasn’t really taken the leap, not yet. She wasn’t at the edge of the cliff.

Natasha looks up so she can meet Steve’s eyes and says, “I want you to make it happen.”

Steve’s whole body jolts a little in surprise. He blinks his long eyelashes. “Uh,” he says. “Okay. Can you be more specific?”

“I don’t mean I want you to get Clint to sell me out on a mission,” she says. “Obviously.”

“Obviously,” Steve echoes, but the way his eyes shift tells her that he was totally prepared to consider that possibility. Which—if he was willing to consider _that_ —

No, she thinks, that’s too far. Even for Steve, who’s as game as they come, the fantasy she has about _him_ is too far. Surely. _Surely_.

“I just mean,” she says, “I’ve been feeling like I could use a little time off. And I think I’d like to spend some of my vacation time on getting some fantasies realized.”

“You want me to organize a sexual fantasy scene for you?” Steve says. “Wow. This must be what it’s like to have a best bro.”

“Okay, one, I can’t believe you just used the phrase _best bro_ ,” Natasha says, willing herself not to laugh, “and two, I don’t think that’s what bros do together.”

“Gosh, should I go out and buy some friendship bracelets?” Steve says, face mock-innocent. “This is, like, a big step for you.”

“Shut the fuck up,” she says, “or I won’t tell you the other fantasies.”

Steve immediately shuts up. His eyes are wide.

 _So_ , Natasha thinks. _Surprised myself there. I guess I’m doing this_.

“Other fantasies?” Steve urges, because Steve is not very good at shutting up, actually.

“Yeah, Rogers,” Natasha says. “You think you’re the only Avenger I wanna have sex with?”

“ _Please_ tell me you have a superfreaky fantasy about Tony,” Steve says, giving Natasha cause to wonder exactly where he learned the word _superfreaky_. Apparently Sam has been giving him a serious musical education.

Natasha snorts. “The Tony fantasy might be the most predictable one, actually,” she says; but she tells him, because it doesn’t take long.

Steve’s eyebrows go up again, but he looks at her seriously. “Huh. That doesn’t sound super safe.”

“Why do you think I _have_ that fantasy?” Natasha says. The heat in her stomach is roiling; she’s way out of her comfort zone, out on a limb, and every step she takes is thrilling. She marvels, not for the first time, at how easy it is for Steve to just keep catching her. “That’s why I could never ask Tony to do it.”

“But you could ask _me_ to ask Tony to do it,” Steve says. She stares at him, face blank, but he doesn’t need to read her to figure it out. He’s no dummy, is Steve Rogers. “That’s why you’re telling me this.” He settles his head back onto the pillow, getting comfortable. Settling in for the long conversational haul. “Hell yeah. All right. What else you got?”

She tells him, the words slow but straight to the point. When she finishes her fantasy about Thor, he whistles. “That’s hot,” he says. “That’s super fucking hot. Part of the fantasy is Captain America watching you do that, right? No? Okay, okay.” The fantasy about Bruce doesn’t make him whistle in admiration. Instead, it makes him _crack up_ , which annoys Natasha into punching him.

“Ow, ow,” Steve says, rolling away from the blows. “Oh my god, that’s _hilarious_. That’s your fantasy about Bruce? Oh my _god_ , he’s gonna _die_. Ahhahahaowowoww,” he adds, sounding not the least bit remorseful.

“Traitor,” she grins, landing one last punch to the arm. “You’re not supposed to laugh at my fantasies.”

“Hey, I’m only human. And anyway, I gotta get the laughter out now, before I start planning this shit. Ahhahaaaa.” Steve wipes his eyes.

“Planning, huh,” Natasha says.

“Yeah,” Steve says. “Assuming you still want me to. You said you want me to help you realize your fantasies. Plural, right? If you have a week off, we could do, say, one a day. Give you time to recover in between.” He winks, and that really shouldn’t be charming, but it is.

“Yeah, sure,” Natasha says. “You just go ahead and plan my sex life for a week.”

“Seriously, Nat,” Steve says, his voice low all of a sudden. “You want it, you got it. Just say the word.”

She watches his face—so open, totally guileless. He’s really offering to do this for her. It might be good, Natasha thinks. Not just good to trust them with this. But—good to be selfish for a while. Good to let her teammates work hard to please her.

Good to have _fun_.

“Yeah,” she says. “Okay. Do it.”

“Swell,” Steve says, and Natasha has to roll her eyes at the antiquated slang. He really is so very himself at all times.

And that thought leads her right back to where she was a few minutes ago, to the _really_ secret fantasy she has. The one about Steve. The one about Captain America.

In for a penny, in for a pound, right?

“There’s one more thing I want you to do,” Natasha says. And she tells Steve the fantasy she has about him.

When she’s done, Steve just looks thoughtful.

Then he says, “Give me a month to get ready.”

“Okay,” Natasha says, something like relief clearing her chest. She feels cautiously excited. “I’ll clear the second week of February.”

 

  1. **I never knew what you saw in me.**



On Monday, February 8, Steve meets up with her at her favorite New York coffee shop, over on West 23rd. It’s one of the few places that still has a Clover machine, now that Starbucks has bought them all, and highly overpriced fair trade coffee is one of those American luxuries that Natasha actually likes.

Steve hands over what looks like a dossier file, for all the world as if he were sending her on a mission. The sunglasses and Red Sox cap add to the effect. God, he’s so bad at disguises, too. Steve Rogers: high on the list of People Who Would Make the Worst Spy Ever.

“Okay, you’re all set,” he says. “Everybody okayed the scenes as you detailed them to me at our previous meetings. Schedule’s on top; breakouts for equipment, site-specific info, and other safety concerns under each scene. And the back has—”

“Participant dossiers,” Natasha says, immediately flipping to the back. She shakes her head, impressed. “Some of this info wasn’t even in SHIELD files.”

“Yeah, so keep this to yourself, Romanoff. Especially the thing about the magic Asgardian rainbow semen.”

A girl with turquoise hair at the next table over sporfles into her coffee.

Natasha grins. “You are _such_ a troll,” she says, watching as the girl puts her headphones on and cranks the volume up on her laptop, looking flustered. “Don’t worry. The team’s secrets are safe with me, soldier.”

Steve grins back. “Have fun. And make sure you read the dossiers—some people added their own ideas. And a few limits.”

“Tony?”

“Wanda,” Steve says. Natasha startles at that. He actually managed to get _Wanda?_ She lets the surprise register on her face, because, wow.

It makes Steve look even more smug. “I know, right? I’m apparently very good at negotiating kinky sex scenes. Maybe I should do this for a living.”

“I wouldn’t quit the day job just yet,” Natasha says, but she’s smiling. This is an amazing gift that Steve’s giving her. That they’re _all_ giving her. Who would ever have thought that this would be something she could ask—or that she would _want_ to ask?

They finish their coffees, chatting about odds and ends of the schedule and about who’s going to handle aftercare on what rotation, and then it’s time to go. Natasha slides her fingers impatiently over the handle of her overnight bag. Her suitcase, much larger, will be in Steve’s care until Tuesday.

“Cab ride to the hotel’s about twenty minutes from here,” Steve says. “Plenty of time to read up on tonight. You have the room until morning. Clint’ll drive you up to the farm tonight or tomorrow, whatever you want.”

“The _farm_ ,” Natasha laughs. “Thor is tomorrow?”

“Yes. And by the way, I signed up for tomorrow’s aftercare session because I want to hear _every fucking detail_.” There’s a little whine in his voice when he says it, and she laughs. She hadn’t thought Steve would share that particular kink of hers. Wonders never cease.

She kisses Steve on the cheek when she climbs into the cab, feeling excited; but reading over the dossier during the cab ride brings all her anxieties back. _This is a pointless waste of resources. A waste of time. It’s dangerous. Your trust in them is misplaced._ That last thought makes her close her eyes and set her jaw, it’s so familiar and so unwelcome. But just holding that idea between her teeth suddenly illuminates how wrong her other worries are: if this really is a test of trust, then it’s definitely not a waste of time or resources. The team put their lives in her hands long ago. It’s time for her to learn, deep down in her bones, that she can trust them, too. And there are worse ways to teach oneself that lesson than with sex.

She knows that from experience.

There are no doormen at the W, which surprises her almost as much as the choice of the hotel. It’s flashy but aggressively modern, lacking any of the old world charm of places like the Waldorf. It suggests a client who cares more about money than style, and more about ruthless efficiency than the slow chess game of Cold War spying. It’s an intimidating choice. Natasha supposes that was the point. She feels a little burst of warmth in her chest: Clint is already playing with her, talking to her. They know each other so well.

Steve was right to put Clint first in the lineup. She feels a flicker of gratitude for that, too. He’s astonishingly perspicacious. Maybe he really should do this for a living.

Clint is waiting for her in the lobby. He kisses her on the cheek: not in character yet.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey,” she returns, half-smiling. He’s wearing a suit and tie. It looks terrible on him. “I can’t remember the last time I saw you in sleeves.”

“Anything for you,” he says. It’s a weak joke, but Natasha hears the warmth under it—he means it. “Wanna get changed before we go up, or after?”

“Before,” she says. “I think I’d like to start when we go in. There was a sheet in the dossier for the client, but no name, so... I’m assuming the meet-and-greet is meant to be an important moment.”

Clint only wiggles his eyebrows in reply, which annoyingly gives _nothing_ away because it’s just the sort of awkward, puerile gesture Clint always makes.

“Come on, Barton,” Natasha says. “At least give me a wardrobe hint.”

His face turns serious. “You should wear something feminine,” he says. “Couture, if you’ve got it. And—” he hesitates, as if this will give too much away—“dress your age.”

 _That_ takes her aback. Her mind is suddenly whirling. She told Steve she was okay with clients she didn’t know, so long as both Clint and Steve vetted them; she’d been expecting something fairly vanilla, maybe a bored startup guru from California or an undersexed Wall Street character. But that sort of guy likes younger women, as a rule, not women in their mid-thirties. Gangsters often like them older, of course, but neither Clint nor Steve would’ve okayed that.

A suspicion begins to creep into her mind. Natasha narrows her eyes.

“Go change,” Clint says, and settles himself on a couch in the lobby. “I’ll be here when you get back.” He emphasizes the _I_ just a little, as if to say: it’ll still be me. We can still back out. There’s time.

Natasha just nods and goes to the bathroom. She pulls a few options out of her overnight bag, hanging them on the back of the stall door to consider. Eventually, she decides on a grey Dior sheath dress with a pair of poppy-red Louboutins, burgundy lipstick, and a gold lace lingerie set she picked up in Prague a while back. She stuffs the other options back in the bag when she’s done and breathes deeply. _You’ll have fun_ , she tells herself. _Go on_.

They don’t talk in the elevator. They don’t talk much before missions, either. Instead, they hand each other things in silence, check each other: _here’s your watch— oh thanks, and your extra gun— let me make sure that ID’s good before you stash it— your pocket zip is sticky, let me ungum it_. Even though they’re fussing now with stray locks of hair, cufflinks, and bags of clothes, the feeling is the same. Natasha hadn’t realized this is what she’d needed to get into the scene, but she feels herself settle. Even if the rest of the night is a wash, she’ll remember this feeling, this sameness they return to so easily. Clint has her back. Always.

Then they get to the door, and Clint raises his eyebrows. _Ready?_

She gives him a little half-smile, and then she tucks her face away and nods. _Ready_.

He opens the door.

“Hope you weren’t waiting long,” he says to whoever’s in the room. He’s walking in front of her down the entrance hallway, past the coat closet ( _real removable hangers; she can do some damage with those_ , her mind automatically says), toward a softly lit bedroom. Natasha’s in character as Clint’s call girl, so she keeps her eyes down, wanting to seem more studiedly demure than she ever is with her actual lovers.

Clint’s added a little swagger to his walk; they rarely send him in for soft deployments like this anymore, but he hasn’t lost his touch. He plays the character close to his actual temperament, just enough truth to be convincing. “I have what you wanted. Time to make the trade.”

She follows Clint toward the room. Whoever’s in there must be sitting in the corner, not at the end of the hall, because she can’t see him. Her heart rate speeds slightly at that; maybe it _is_ a gangster, someone who knows to keep the hell away from the windows and out of a direct line of fire. Young money, though. Maybe a celebrity? Someone used to keeping away from cameras?

“You can inspect beforehand, of course,” Clint adds, and stops walking. He’s looking at the client, standing between Natasha and the angle of sight, which of course he’s doing on purpose. Teasing her, the bastard. He’s really milking this. Natasha bites her lip. Who _is_ it? “Wouldn’t want you to think you’re not getting your money’s worth.”

“Oh, I’m sure I’ll get my money’s worth,” says Pepper Potts.

Natasha’s head jerks up in shock.

Clint takes a little step, turning his body so she can see into the room, and there in an overstuffed chair in the corner of the suite is Pepper fucking Potts in a business suit with a goddamn briefcase, looking up at Natasha with a smile that could make a Fortune 500 CEO wet himself, and probably has.

 _You motherfucker_ , she thinks as loudly as she can at Clint, and pulls herself together.

“Hi,” she says, letting a little of the real nervousness she’s feeling show in her voice. She steps further into the room, until she can feel the light hit her face and chest, and she stops as if on a mark. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Oh,” Pepper says, “it’s not that kind of game, Natasha.”

Natasha _freezes_.

“You see, what you negotiated was that Clint should pick a partner for you who was interested in exchanging something for your sexual services,” Pepper says. Natasha’s heart is pounding. She can feel Clint’s eyes on her back, steadying her. “You stipulated that the identity of this partner should be unknown to you prior to the event and that your enjoyment of the fantasy depended largely on ceding control of this choice. Correct so far?”

“Yes, that’s correct,” Natasha says, hearing layers of intonation that belong to Natalie Rushman. She’s reaching instinctively for something to play, some mask to throw up, even as she’s standing in front of Pepper, her _friend_ Pepper who she _knows_ , or thought she knew. This is a sensation not unlike panic.

“You also delineated the parameters of the information about you which Clint should provide to this selected partner. And it was an interesting set of facts, by the way. His offer was compelling.” Natasha feels herself blush. “But—correct me if I’m wrong—” and Pepper turns her hand, lifts a glass of champagne that Natasha hadn’t even noticed, she hadn’t _noticed_ , fuck— “you didn’t specify that the chosen partner should _forget_ any information she already happened to know.”

“No, I didn’t,” Natasha says, and she wills the voice to be _hers_ , because whatever this is, it’s suddenly very fucking real and she needs to be here for it.

She feels Clint’s hand on the small of her back. The touch stills her. Clint chose this because she trusts him. He also chose this because he trusts _her_.

If there are consquences to this evening, they’ll handle it.

Pepper sips at her champagne. “So,” she says. “If you’d like to leave now, or indeed at any time, you can give me the safeword and that will be that.” She picks up her phone: a figure describing a large amount of money is displayed above a button reading TRANSFER FUNDS. “As a gesture of good faith, I’ll make the transfer now.”

She taps the button. There’s a small _wooshing_ sound.

Clint nods. “Thank you.”

Pepper nods back, and then she looks at Natasha, face quizzical.

All right. This is the game she asked for, after all: she dared Clint to go big or go home, and fuck if he didn’t call her bluff. She’s thrown, and the feeling is a little like the buzz of Pepper’s champagne. Now is the moment when she has to decide whether to sober up or buckle down.

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees that Clint is smiling ever so slightly.

“It’d be my pleasure, Pepper,” Natasha says, intentionally using her first name. She drops her shoulders back, losing the last vestiges of the faux-demure stance she came in with. Instead she lets herself fold her fingers together in front of her and lean on one hip—her natural stance—and waits for Pepper’s response.

Pepper’s stiff executive demeanor melts, and there’s her friend again, downing the remaining champagne and marching over to her. She kisses Natasha on both cheeks, _bisou bisou_ , and takes her by the hands. “We’re going to have the girls’ night I’ve always wanted with you,” she says, eyes gleaming. “That’ll be all, Clint,” she adds airily, not looking away from Natasha’s face.

“Ladies,” Clint says, nodding a goodbye, and how he can make _one word_ sound so fucking smug Natasha will never know. She hears his footsteps recede and the door open and close, and then she’s alone with Pepper. In her heels, Pepper is ethereally tall, even with Natasha’s stilettos making up the difference. She’s wearing the same perfume she always wears.

“The girls’ night you’ve always wanted, huh?” Natasha says. She raises an eyebrow. “You’ve been thinking about this for a while?”

“Let’s just say Clint’s offer was a welcome surprise,” Pepper says, laughing. She glances over at the bottle of champagne, maybe about to offer some, but her thumbs are caressing Natasha’s hands and wrists, betraying her eagerness. She looks back at Natasha. “You’re gorgeous, you know. I’ve dated some very pretty women, but—” she shakes her head. Then she lets go of Natasha’s hand and reaches up to stroke the side of her face. It’s such an earnest gesture, with real warmth behind it, that Natasha feels a pang in her chest.

“Hi,” Natasha says again, nonsensically. She lets Pepper’s hand pull her in like gravity, and then they’re kissing.

Pepper’s lips are very soft and thin, and at first she kisses tenderly, delicately; then she wraps an arm around Natasha’s waist and presses closer, and they’re kissing open-mouthed, more of an exploration of tongues than anything, wet and messy and lipstick-ruining. The moment feels vertiginous. When they break free, both of them are breathing hard.

“Tell me what you want,” Natasha murmurs, and Pepper laughs. She lifts her arms and twines them girlishly around Natasha’s neck, rocking them slowly as if at a high school dance.

“I imagined what you’d do with your clients, you know,” Pepper said. “I thought it was pretty hot. I mean, not the for-work part. Believe me, I’m aware that doing just about anything for work instead of fun can ruin it.” She smirks, and neither of them has to say it to know she’s talking about the iron elephant in the room. “But I wondered,” and Natasha hears how her voice gets husky, and she’s staring at Natasha’s lips— “I always suspected that that kind of guy really likes to be the one getting fucked.” She smiles. Natasha feels a surge of heat between her legs to hear Pepper say _getting fucked_.

“A couple times I jacked off thinking about it. You with some mediocre suit, tying him to the bed and working him open until he gave you whatever you wanted.” Natasha stiffens. This is cutting close to the bone, even though there’s no way Pepper knows specifics. _Clint, you asshole_ , she thinks.

Pepper tucks her face into the hollow of Natasha’s neck. It really does feel like they’re at a dance: the dim lighting, the uncertainty. The rocking has brought them close to the bed, and she can feel the soft fabric of the duvet brush her calves. “I bought you,” Pepper whispers. “I paid for you. So now I want the full experience, Natasha.” She mouths softly at Natasha’s neck, licking and nibbling and Natasha groans. She digs her fingers into Pepper’s waist, consciously letting herself show her handstrength, letting it be real. “Tonight, I want to be the one getting fucked.”

She tips her head back so they’re looking at each other again. Natasha cocks her head. “Yeah?” she says. “How do you want to get fucked?”

“You still don’t get it,” Pepper says. “I’m in charge of a company all day and any number of other things at night.” She steps even closer, so that her whole body is pressed against Natasha’s. “Now I’m paying _you_ to be in charge.”

It’s like a tennis match, Natasha thinks: Clint set the whole game up perfectly, and knew just how to spike it for the score. Asking Clint to pick a partner for her gave up control, but it also forced him to reveal himself through the choices he made. So he picked someone who would do that exact thing back to her—force her to reveal what she really wants, who she really is, by having to make decisions. And not just any someone. Someone who really _knows_ her, who will remember what happens here. Someone she cares about.

And finally, she has to laugh. It’s a low, genuine laugh, of being delighted in defeat. Clint has outmaneuvered her. Now she has to play the hand out.

She leans in and kisses Pepper again, because kissing her is wet and sweet, and then she reaches a hand up into Pepper’s hair. “All right,” she says. She tightens her hand into a fist, tipping Pepper’s head back, and Pepper gasps. “I’m in charge.”

“Yes,” Pepper says, looking suddenly wobbly.

“Good,” Natasha says, and—because she can, because she _wants_ to—she steps forward into Pepper just as she pulls down with her other hand, and she drops them both _bang_ onto the bed, rolling over on top of her. Pepper cries out, more out of surprise than hurt, Natasha thinks. Natasha reaches down right away and shoves up Pepper’s skirt, pulling aside her flimsy lace underwear and putting her hand right on Pepper’s cunt.

“Oh,” Pepper says. Her face is suddenly bright red. “I thought—I didn’t—”

“Thought I’d go slow?” Natasha says. “The elegant assassin, toying with her victims like a cat?” Pepper’s wet already, not a lot, but enough that Natasha can slip one finger inside and use her thumb to stroke Pepper’s clit. Pepper moans, her eyes wide. “I’m in charge, you said. That means if I want my hand in your pussy, I get it.”

“Fuck,” Pepper gaps. “Oh—” She leans up to kiss Natasha, but Natasha grabs her hair again and pulls her back. “Please,” Pepper says. “I want to kiss you.”

“Hmm,” Natasha says, noncommittal. She adds another finger inside Pepper’s cunt, which she thinks will probably be _just_ the right side of too much, too fast, and she’s rewarded with a noise of indignant arousal. “Okay,” she says, and leans over to kiss Pepper while she rubs at her clit. It feels good, so good, pushing into Pepper like this, being rough and sudden, playing at violence. Pepper’s kisses are urgent now. She nips Natasha with her teeth and Natasha responds by calmly starting to fuck into Pepper with her two fingers, not gently, either.

“Yes,” Pepper gasps. She’s digging her own fingers into Natasha’s shoulders, maybe enough to leave bruises tomorrow. Her eyes flutter closed. “Nngh, god—”

Natasha wants _so_ badly to slap her, make her open her eyes in shock, but she can’t, this is _Pepper_ —and then she realizes that the hesitation is making her slow down, and Pepper’s smiling, and she chuckles, eyes still closed.

“Whatever it is, do it,” Pepper pants. “I know my safeword.”

And that’s an offer Natasha can’t refuse. Still holding Pepper’s hair for safety, she takes her other hand away from Pepper’s cunt and gives her a _smack!_ right across the face.

Pepper _squeals_ and tries to twist her head away, but she also pulls Natasha closer with her arms and smiles, so it’s all right, it was right.

 _Trust this_ , Natasha thinks, and she wills herself to give in to her desire.

She slaps Pepper around for a good ten minutes after that, first the face and then on her pussy, which produces shrieks and moans that make Natasha growl in pleasure. Then she makes Pepper undress and takes her own dress off, and she spanks Pepper’s ass with her bare hand until it’s pink and warm to the touch. Then she makes Pepper stay like that, ass in the air and face in the hotel pillow, while she works four fingers inside her pussy and two in her asshole, fucking faster and faster until Pepper’s thighs are soaked and trembling.

“Please,” Pepper gasps, voice half muffled by the pillow. “Please, I need to come—”

“ _Come_ ,” Natasha says immediately, because this is the long game, not the tease, and Pepper’s cunt tightens on her fingers and she keens as she comes.

Natasha slows her pace, listening to Pepper breathe. “Good,” she says. “Again.”

“What?” Pepper says. “Again?”

“Again,” Natasha repeats, and she picks up her pace.

“Oh god,” Pepper says. “I can’t so quickly, I don’t—” but she can, it turns out, and she begins to shake, and then she gasps as the climax passes. “ _Fuck_ ,” she says. “I didn’t know I could do that.” She laughs.

Pulling her hands out, Natasha says, “I think I need some equipment for the next part.”

Of course Pepper came prepared, so there’s a strap-on harness with a good sized dildo ready to go; Natasha wastes little time in getting Pepper on her knees to blow her, and then decides that Pepper doesn’t really know what to do with her hands, so she cuffs her hands in front of her and lays her out sideways on the bed before forcing her dick back in her mouth. Pepper sucks her eagerly, hungrily, and Natasha feels waves of pleasure roll over her, bringing her closer to orgasm, but not yet, not yet.

She lies down behind Pepper on the bed and fucks her roughly, one arm wrapped around so she can push Pepper’s cuffed hands down toward her own clit. Pepper is loud, and she comes at least once, and then again when Natasha finds a vibrating plug and fills Pepper’s ass with it while she works her fingers back into her pussy. This time, Pepper actually comes with a gushing wave of fluid and a deep moan, and Natasha feels a thrill of power and pride that she was able to do that to her, able to pull that out of her.

When Pepper looks like she’s wrecked, Natasha takes off the harness and lays back on the bed, making Pepper crawl toward her, still cuffed. She grabs Pepper by the hair, but she doesn’t have to say it. Pepper sets her mouth on Natasha’s cunt as soon as she’ll let her, and she only has to work for a few minutes before Natasha is finally coming, her whole body crescendoing into a wild yelp of victory.

They lie together for a while, not moving, Pepper’s head resting on Natasha’s hip. Eventually, she suspects Pepper will fall asleep if they don’t get up, and she doesn’t think those cuffs are the right kind for sleeping.

“Hey,” she says. “Shower. Come on.”

“Getting up sounds _terrible_ ,” Pepper says.

“Yeah, well, I’m still in charge,” Natasha retorts. “Let’s go.”

“Mmmf,” Pepper says, but she lifts her hands dutifully to be uncuffed.

They spend a while in the shower, not kissing or even touching much; it feels good just to stand together under the spray, loose-limbed and warm. Without asking, Pepper shampoos Natasha’s hair, and that little presumption of acceptance somehow melts Natasha’s defensiveness more thoroughly than the whole rest of the night. Or maybe it does so only because of the rest of the night—only because _after_ getting fucked and serviced and pleasured, Pepper still likes her. Pepper is her friend.

She lets Pepper rub her fingers into her scalp for both the shampoo and the conditioner, and she kisses her cheek as they’re toweling dry.

They crawl under the covers together, naked and sweet-smelling; Natasha strips off the coverlet which bore the brunt of their earlier efforts, and Pepper switches off the lights. Only a little street light shows around the edges of the curtains, and the room is dim. Natasha hears Pepper’s soft sigh.

“I don’t really like to cuddle, I’m afraid,” Pepper says. “I overheat.”

“That’s okay,” Natasha says, meaning it. “This is nice.”

“Mmm.” Pepper rolls toward her. “Thank you.” She kisses Natasha gently, and then she leans back. Her eyes are very bright, even in the dark. “Good night, Natasha.”

Natasha smiles, the same half-smile she gave Clint. _Bless him, that motherfucker_ , she thinks. “Good night.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha's second assignation requires... a different venue.

Natasha hears the soft bleat of Pepper’s alarm at 5:45. If Pepper didn’t already know that Natasha was an international superspy, she’d ignore the alarm and play the sleep-addled, adorably bleary-eyed dream girl who doesn’t wake up quite enough for anything other than kissing.

However, Pepper _does_ know that Natasha’s an international superspy. So when the alarm goes off, Natasha is already up and washed, wrapped in a bathrobe, making coffee, and reading the news on her phone. Pepper kisses her good morning, all smiles, and Natasha finds herself smiling back.

“Busy day?” Natasha says as Pepper packs up her things and comports herself, checking her messages, getting dressed.

“Not as busy as yours,” Pepper says with a wicked little smile.

Natasha slowly raises one eyebrow. “As my friend Mr. Wilson would say: oh, it’s like that, is it?”

“Mmm. Yeah.” Pepper finishes putting her earrings in and picks up her briefcase. She marches over in her heels and plants a kiss on Natasha’s forehead. The sensation is odd: a little as though Pepper might think she needs taking care of. She’s not sure if Pepper’s right. She files the feeling away for later.

“Cleanup crew’s arriving in five,” she grins. Then her expression softens. “I’ll see you Friday, okay?”

“Yeah,” Natasha says. “Looking forward to it.”

After Pepper leaves, Natasha barely has time to make a second cup of coffee before its recipient knocks, swipes the spare keycard, and walks in.

Natasha smiles and hands Clint his coffee.

Clint signs casually, “This looks gross.” But he takes it anyway, because Clint has never met a cup of coffee he didn’t try to drink.

She smirks at him and sits back in her bathrobe. They sit without talking for a while, Nat in the chair and Clint on the bed, and then Clint signs, “So before we go, do you want to talk about it?”

“Maybe,” Natasha signs back. She purses her lips. “It was really good. Easy, once I got into it.”

“Yeah, you two have serious chemistry.”

He makes the rude sign that basically means _carpet-muncher_ , teasing her, and Natasha grins.

“Jealous?”

Clint cocks his head. “Seriously, do you want to talk about what happened?” he signs. “I’m here for a reason. Steve scheduled me for aftercare.”

She huffs out a sigh. “Yeah, I do. I also wanted to brag, though.” Then she shakes her head. “Um,” she signs, touching her mouth. “You scared the shit out of me.”

“Yeah?” Clint signs back. He drinks the dregs of his coffee and pulls a face. She sympathizes. It really is terrible. “In a bad way?”

Natasha considers. “No,” she signs. “In a good way, actually. You knew just where to push, and how.” She keeps her tone carefully light, but Clint’s expression tells her that he knows how much this means to her, to be known this way, to be pushed so precisely. She feels an abrupt surge of fondness. “You were completely right to choose someone I knew.”

“Someone who would make you take charge,” Clint signs, smirking, and Natasha rolls her eyes.

“Yes. Clever move. And it was a relief, actually. I hadn’t considered how much fun it would be to do that with someone I could trust. It was a different game than the one I’d imagined.” Natasha smiles to herself. “But a good one.”

“So I hit the mark?” Clint signs, a little anxiously, and Natasha can’t help herself—or, she can, but she doesn’t want to. This _guy._ She chuckles.

“You never miss,” she signs, and she takes off her robe, dropping it into the chair as she walks over to the bed. She steps between his knees. “We got a little time?”

He nods, and then they stop talking for a while, just using their hands and mouths to reconnect, trace each other, find all the things they know about each other. Clint’s in casual clothes, so it’s easy to strip him, and then it’s easy to let the dawn slide by into morning as she licks at the sensitive hollow of his hips, as he presses his fingertips into her muscles just where she always gets sore. There’s nothing to think about and nothing to need; they have everything they need right here, lying beside each other atop the hotel room covers. Somewhere in the kissing and pressing, she pulls Clint inside her. It feels so good, so sure and familiar, grounding her.

She rocks down on him for long enough that she gets lost in the motion. His muscles are taut, the hardness of his thighs palpable against hers. Eventually, his kisses get shorter and become breaths; they pant together, open-mouthed, through her orgasm. He stops, briefly, face questioning, but she just tucks her face into the crook of his neck and keeps rocking, and then she feels his arms wrap around her. He pulls her onto him, hard and tight, hitting the sweet spot, and she shudders in near-climax for a long time before he comes.

She rolls off him and taps his chest to make him look at her.

“Good talk,” she signs.

They get the giggles for a bit after that.

  1. **I didn’t think you took me seriously.**



When they pull up to the farm, Thor’s already out by the empty stables, waiting. He waves at the car and grins while they park before loping over toward them.  
  
“He’s already naked,” Clint says out loud, in his extra-incredulous voice, as if Natasha hadn't told him what to expect. “Why is he already naked.”

Natasha quirks an amused smile and hops out. “Hey Thor,” she says. “You ready for our playdate?”

“My friend Natasha!” Thor booms, throwing his arms wide. She steps forward, not sure if it was an offer for a hug, but presuming that—yup, Thor will definitely hug at the slightest provocation. She feels her ribs squish uncomfortably and has cause to be thankful, not for the first time, that this guy’s on _their_ side. “I have spent the morning preparing all the equipment, as requested. You will find it all cleaned, oiled, and in readiness.” He looks down at her, eyebrows lifted slightly, waiting for praise.

God, she’s going to enjoy the fuck out of this.

“That’s very good, Thor,” she says lightly, and his smile widens. “Why don’t you go on back, and I’ll get ready in the house. Be there in five.”

Thor nods and steps away. Then he turns to Clint—a bit awkwardly, Natasha thinks—and shakes his hand. “Thank you again for the use of your homestead,” he says.

Clint winces, and Natasha’s pretty sure it’s not from the handshake, but rather from the word _use_. “No problem,” he says. “Nobody’s here, so you have, uh, free rein.”

Natasha has a sudden coughing fit.

“What?” Clint says as Thor jogs off to the stables. “You knew this was gonna happen.”

“No no, I’m fine,” Natasha says, barely stifling her laughter.

“Well, I just thought you sounded a little... _horse_.”

“I know at least fifty ways to kill you with this luggage, Clint.”

“Funny, you don’t usually _bridle_ at my jokes.”

“Less talk, more carrying bags.”

“Okay, okay, I’ll _pony_ up. ... _OW!_ ” Clint yelps, rubbing his arm where she’d pinched him.

Natasha sighs. “No wonder Steve didn’t pick you for Tuesday’s aftercare.”

“Maybe he just didn’t want to _saddle_ me with such a massive responsibility,” Clint grins, carrying her suitcase past her into the house.

*

When Natasha’s dressed and the sound of Clint’s car pulling away from the house has long since faded into the distance, she pads out softly to the stables.

Thor isn’t looking at the door when she comes in, and he doesn’t move to look up at her when she lets the hinges creak so he’ll know she’s here. He’s just kneeling in the hay inside one of the stalls, his hands folded and head slightly bowed. His body is very beautiful, of course, but what Natasha loves about Thor—what she _saw_ in Thor that made her want to do this—is his eagerness to be good. His desire to please, to be useful, is _thrillingly_ beautiful. Seeing him like this nearly stops Natasha’s breath.

She reminds herself again that he has agreed to everything that is about to happen. She is not misusing him or taking advantage of his trust. She is _allowed_ to use him as she pleases.

A wicked smile creeps across her face.

“You look lovely,” she says, husky, and crosses to him. She lifts his chin with her free hand, forcing him to look up; she wants to catch his expression when he sees her dressed like this, black riding boots and white jodhpurs, shirt and tie and jacket. And the crop, of course.

She is not disappointed. His pupils bloom as he takes her in, and he licks his lips, unselfconscious.

“Thank you,” he rumbles.

“Let’s get you ready for the field, shall we?” she murmurs. “Your tack...?”

He just nods his head to one side, and she looks to see that Thor has laid out all the equipment on a blanket inside the stall, just as if it were to be used on an actual horse. Of course, even princes in Asgard must know how to care for their horses, she supposes. If they are to ride them in battle.

Natasha feels herself growing wet just thinking about it.

“Very good,” she says, keeping her voice low, full of calm reassurance, as if talking to a skittish animal. She lets her free hand run up into Thor’s hair and scratches his head, just as she would a horse’s under its mane. He lets out a loud sigh of contentment and butts up into her hand before she lets go.

“Let’s see...” she says. “Tail, good. Hooves, very good. Bit and bridle... have you ever worn a bridle before?” She turns to see if he’ll answer verbally, but he just shakes his head and grunts softly: already going under the surface, into another headspace. She draws in a sharp breath. She had known this would be good, but she hadn’t expected it to be so _easy_.

Struck by sudden inspiration, she lets her hand drift down to the front of her jodhpurs and starts to rub herself.

Thor watches her hand, his eyes wide. He even sways forward, perhaps unconsciously.

“You’re going to be such a beautiful horse,” Natasha says huskily, rubbing harder. “So beautiful, running in the sunlight for me. I’m going to run you hard. Can you run hard for me?”

Thor nods, another grunt escaping him, this time louder and rougher.

Natasha steps forward slowly, and then further into Thor’s space, so that her crotch is pressed against his nose. To his credit, he doesn’t raise his hands, just stays kneeling. A fine sheen of sweat is visible on his shoulders.

“If you work very hard,” Natasha whispers, “you can have a nice treat when you’re done. Can you smell your treat?”

At that, Thor positively _whinnies_ , a shrill, desperate sound that vibrates all through Natasha’s body, and a sudden feeling of joy within her bubbles up into a laugh.

“Let’s start with the hooves,” she says, backing away.

She dresses him as slowly as she can bear, wanting to savor each moment as he slips further under, but eager to see the finished product. The front hooves go quickly, covering each hand and lacing at the wrist; the back hooves take a little more fiddling, to make sure he will be able to run swiftly in them without twisting an ankle. Thor takes the bit well, not mouthing at her hand or flinching at the taste, although he tosses his head a few times after she buckles the bridle. Too late, she realizes how similar it must be to the muzzle he once put on his brother, and she puts a hand on his shoulder to calm him, to get his attention.

“Hey,” she says, meeting his eyes. He stills, watching her. “Remember: clap your hooves together and everything stops. The whole thing. It can be a pause or it can be an end, whatever you want. It’s not a big deal.” He doesn’t move, and she worries for a moment that he’s not hearing her. Command is what he needs, she thinks, not complication. “Touch your hoof to your nose if you understand me.”

He does, blinking at her.

She doesn’t look away as she says, “Touch your hoof to your nose again if you want to keep going.”

He does, immediately, and she lets herself halt all the recalculations she’d started making. “Okay.” She grins. “Time for the fun part.”

Since they have the stables, she guides him to his feet and then over to the door of the stall, where she lifts the reins attached to the bridle and hooks them over a nearby peg. He shivers, suddenly, and his half-hard cock visibly fills and rises under her gaze. For all that he is virtually a god, he likes the illusion of confinement, she thinks. Or perhaps he likes the idea of being _kept_.

Natasha is definitely ruining these jodhpurs.

“Good boy,” she murmurs, stroking his flank with one hand, just as she would a horse. His sweat feels not unlike a horse’s foam under her palm, and each ripple of his muscle is palpable. She steps behind him slowly, keeping her hand on his body, the way one keeps a horse from startling and kicking. Her palm comes to rest on his buttock, and although she would never do this to a horse, she squeezes slightly, digging her fingernails in. Thor moans around the bit.

“Hmm,” she says, mock-contemplatively. “I need both hands for a moment.” She grins, although—or perhaps because—no one is there to see it, and she gently parts Thor’s buttocks and lays the crop length-wise between them. “Hold that, would you?”

He clenches instantly, so _eager_ , and Natasha allows herself to laugh again, a merry, full-throated sound.

“Very good,” she says. “Now the tail...”

Thor’s negotiation sheet said that Natasha could insert the tail without lube if she wanted to, and at first the idea of being rough appealed to her; but now that she’s here, she finds that she wants to take the time to prepare Thor, to wind him up as much as she can before she lets him spend on the field.

Once she has the tail in one hand, ready, and the other hand gloved and lubed ( _calving gloves, nice touch, Steve_ , she thinks)— she removes the crop, tosses it away, and then inserts three fingers.

Thor cries out wordlessly, the sound warped by the bit, yet clearly a noise of arousal. Natasha says nothing; Thor seems pleasurably absorbed in his role by now, and one does not explain oneself to an animal. Instead, she simply fucks in and out of him with her fingers, gently but none too slow, for a very long time.

At first, Thor keeps making noise, as if responding or communicating; then he lapses into quiet, his body tensing and the muscles around Natasha’s fingers clenching. She watches him struggle against this silent use, this wordless, bare carnality, his breath coming faster, and she can _see_ the moment he breaks: a great swell of breath inflates his chest, and when he releases the air, he keens loud and long and pushes his ass up into her hand wantonly, sluttishly. Like an animal would, who cannot use words to ask for more.

Natasha growls. “Yes,” she says. “Yes, that’s right. That’s right,” she says again, fucking faster with her fingers. Thor’s legs are shaking now, just the way Natasha’s sometimes do before an orgasm, and she must make the choice swiftly. She decides to leave it up to chance: just as Thor’s trembling seems to be approaching its height, she swiftly removes her hand and thrusts the plug into his ass.

The noise Thor makes is one of simultaneous pleasure and frustration, and she knows that he has not come to orgasm, but she thinks the moment was no less sweet a climax.

“Now,” she says, “let’s see how you run.”

She shucks the glove and picks up a new, unused crop, striding around in front of him. Thor’s eyes are heavy-lidded, his lips cherry red with blood. Natasha almost wants to kiss him, but it would ruin the moment.

And this will be better anyway.

Lifting the reins, she leads him from the stall, careful to watch his feet. Avenger he may be, but Natasha has seen Steve trip over his own toes in a sex-addled haze, serum-enhanced reflexes or not. When they’ve navigated the stables and emerged into the field, the sunlight seems to flood Natasha’s body, and she looks to see the effect it has on Thor.

He seems to puff his chest in pleasure, tossing his golden hair and grunting; the stable wasn’t cold, but it was cool, and all the warmth of the sun must feel wonderful on his skin, especially after the strain of keeping still under her ministrations. She has a sudden wild desire to see something, and thinks—why not, what is this for but our ludicrous pleasures?—and leaving Thor to stand by the field, crop dropped in the grass, she goes to the side of the stables to see if what she wants is there.

Bless Clint, it is. And it works, because of course it does.

When she’s dragged it back far enough that she can reach Thor, she calls to get his attention. “Thor,” she says. “Let’s—”

But she doesn’t finish saying it, because one doesn’t explain things to an animal, and this doesn’t need explaining anyway.

She lets the spray of the garden hose arc high over his head and fall down over his hair, his flank, his tail, watching the sunlight make rainbows in the stream. The first touch of the droplets sends a ripple over Thor’s whole body, and he turns into the spray, letting the wash of clear cold water spill across the broad muscles of his shoulders, the knot of his abdominal muscles, the hard length of his erect dick, the grooves of his hips, the pert curve of his ass.  
  
Natasha sees it all as if in slow motion, and standing there in the field, garden hose pressed hard between her legs and coating Thor with its spray, she comes like a freight train.

The glow of sunlight seems to heighten her vision for a moment. She notices how green the grass is in the field, how yellow Thor’s hair looks against the blue sky.

Then she is panting, wet, and laughing wickedly at Thor’s reaction to her orgasm, which is to whinny and stop his hooves impatiently. She has wound him up but _good_.

“All right,” she says, still huffing breath, “it’s time. Run. Run your heart out.”

And he does. With all the power and speed of an actual horse, his hands and feet bound into hooves and his head bridled, his hair and his artificial tail streaming out behind him, Thor _gallops_ into the open field, bursting with all the pent-up energy Natasha has stirred inside him.

He is beautiful to watch. The muscles of his thighs are so powerful that they quiver under his skin as he runs, and the edges of his hooves send up clods of grass in his wake. He races across the field as far as the barn, and then out toward the trees, circling the clearing. When he gets back to Natasha, he slows, as if unsure whether to stop; but Natasha wants him reacting, not thinking, so she picks up the crop as he approaches and gives him a hard _smack!_ directly on the ass.

He shudders and speeds his gait, racing away again to the trees. His pace is more even now; he’s settled into a stride, running with less purpose. He follows nearly the same path back to her, and when he approaches, she smacks him with the crop again.

She does this past the point at which her feet have begun to hurt from the new riding boots, and past, she suspects, the point at which Thor has begun to feel the weight of the hooves and the intrusion of the tail. She keeps him running and running past thought, past frustration, past tiredness, until he is just a horse doing its owner’s bidding, just running because she commands it.

Only then, when the sunlight has begun to turn red and the trees cast long shadows on the field, does she receive him not with the crop but with her hands.

“Easy, easy,” she says, stilling him. He trembles in her hands, stepping back and forth, as if unsure how to stop. She gives the reins a gentle yank, making him meet her eyes. “Easy.” She strokes a hand down his face; he is breathing hard around the bit. She wonders, briefly, how long it would take to run him to real exhaustion; but she isn’t sure the field would survive it. “Okay. You were beautiful. You ran so well for me. You ran so well.”

Thor closes his eyes then, and presses his face into her hand, seeming to relax. Praise, Natasha thinks, is such a heady drug, especially to people who truly want to be good. The mysterious thing about Thor is that he makes her want to _give_ him that praise—not just now, but all the time; and until this moment, standing here sweaty and smelling of sex in a wild, open field, she never truly believed her praise would mean much to him.

But now, she feels it, her chest swelling with the sense of power, accomplishment, and sheer _joy_.

In this moment, her praise is everything to him.

“Come on,” she says. “You’ve been so good. You’ve done _so_ well. Would you like your treat now?”

He touches his hoof to his nose twice, almost frantically, and she bites her lip in anticipation.

“Here,” she says, leading him over to a bench near the stables. Careful to guide him with her hands, she bends him slightly over the bench, letting him rest his weight on his front hooves, and ties up the reins to a post on the other side, so that he can’t straighten. He rumbles.

“I know,” she murmurs, petting his nose. “I know, boy. You’ve been so good. Just another moment.”

She gets a condom and slicks it down onto him. She’d intended this moment to revive his interest if it had flagged, but Thor is firmly erect and wet with precome and sweat. Still, she rolls her hand up and down his cock anyway, smoothing down the condom and feeling the weight of it in her hand for her own pleasure.

Natasha takes off her jacket, both because she’s overheating and because she knows the wet fabric of her shirt will cling very attractively to her breasts, and she wants to let Thor look. Then, not bothering to take off her boots, she opens the fly of her jodhpurs and pushes them down her thighs, baring herself.

Carefully, she slides underneath Thor, bent forward over the bench, resting on her forearms.

She can feel him shuddering above her, his cock brushing her cunt but not daring to enter, not until she gives the word.

“All right, boy,” she says. “You can have your treat now.”

He plunges into her with a sound like a roar, all his hot length filling her at once, and she gasps. The position makes him feel positively _huge_ , and Natasha clenches onto him in pleasure, thinking, _I’m being fucked by my prize stallion_.

“Yes,” she gasps, and Thor starts pumping into her, fast and hard and just the way she imagined, just the way she wanted it. She can feel spit dripping from his rubber bit onto the back of her neck and it sends a hot rush through her, knowing that he is hers to _use_ , hers to fill and fuck and be fucked by, hers to make run, hers to watch and feel. The smell of his sweat is thick around her as he fills her over and over again, his cock fat inside her, demanding, powerful. She gasps as he tries to rear back to fuck her harder, perhaps the way his instinct tells him to fuck a woman—that is, upright—but he is stopped by the reins which Natasha tied. The noise of arousal he makes at suddenly being constrained in this way, even though he doesn’t _have_ to be, even though he could uproot the whole fence with little effort, sends spikes of lust deep into Natasha’s brain.

“That’s right,” she says, feeling Thor surfacing now, “you’re just my animal, my good animal, you have to _fuck_ like an animal, you have to fuck me like this whether you want to or not— _ahh_ —” At her words, Thor’s thrusting speeds to a tremendous rate, and there is little she can do but hold on and be fucked.

Thor comes so hard that he destroys the bit, biting clean through the rubber.

“Natasha,” he sobs, pressed flush against her, and Natasha just says “shh, shh,” and gently torques her body so that she can push him away and out. When she can move, she pulls up her pants and rolls over to face upward, and she puts her hands on Thor’s cheeks. The leather nose still covers most of Thor’s mouth, the broken pieces of the bridle dangling on either side of his jaw. His eyes are desperate. He’s come down all at once, she realizes, and hard.

“Okay,” she says, putting on a neutral voice, not dissimilar from the voice she uses on missions. “We’re gonna get you out of all this and into the house. Then we’ll sit and talk about this. Just do everything in the order I tell you and it’ll be quick. Yes?”

“Yes,” Thor manages, and she goes to work: first the bridle, since it seems emotionally hardest for him, and then the tail and condom, since they're most sexual. Then she frees his hands, and together they unlace his feet, one hoof each. When he is free, he suddenly seems to lose all his energy, collapsing down onto the grass.

“Whoa, okay, not here,” Natasha says. “Come on. It’s not far to the couch.”

She leaves Thor in the house, wrapped in a blanket on the couch. She can light a fire later, but first she needs to clean up. After running a glass of water from the tap and leaving it on the table next to Thor, she returns to the field and the stables, clearing the detritus, gathering up all the used equipment and tossing it into the blanket, which she rolls up and takes to her room. Then, because she senses a long conversation is imminent, she takes a sixty-second shower and puts on soft pajama pants and an old tshirt that says _Monterey Bay Aquarium_ in faded letters.

Then she pads back downstairs and lights the fire before curling up next to Thor on the couch.

He’s wrapped the blanket around himself tightly, but when she sits next to him he lifts one end and wraps it around her too, cocooning them.

For a little while, they don’t talk; she just pets his hair and he rests his head on her shoulder. They both watch as the fire consumes the newspaper, and then the thin kindling, and then eventually the blaze roars to life around the two logs which Steve split the last time he was here.

“They’ll be here with dinner in about an hour,” Natasha says. “But if you’re hungry now, I can—” Thor shakes his head. She nods and settles in. “So?”

Thor sighs. “That was—truly magnificent,” he says at last. “More than I dreamed.”

She smiles. “Me too,” she replies, a bit nonsensically, but he nuzzles against her neck, so he must understand what she means. Dimly, part of her mind remembers to be astonished that she is permitting, maybe even _enjoying_ , cuddling like this; but she simply notes it and files it away. It’s not relevant now.

“I had never thought to find such freedom in confinement,” Thor says; and then he opens like a flower, revealing and detailing all the tender feelings of want, the drive to be _good_ , that Natasha had sensed under the surface. He tells her a little about his childhood, and then, more nervously, tells her about how similar and yet how different the people of earth are to his own.

“You are all so _complicated_ ,” he says, sounding a little angry, and Natasha laughs. “That amuses you, my friend?”

Natasha’s eyes twinkle. “Do you think you’re _not_ complicated?”

Thor sighs. “I did not used to think so.”

By the time Steve and Jane show up with Thor’s favorite pizza and Natasha’s favorite cupcakes, the two of them are sprawled all over each other on the couch and swapping dirty jokes, Russian for Asgardian, and Natasha pretends not to hear them come in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is unbetaed, so please forgive any grammar mistakes / continuity errors! And thank you for reading this, I hope you like it :D


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha's third date is tricky.

Natasha would never admit to most people that she has both read and enjoyed the _Harry Potter_ novel series. She would definitely never tell anyone unprompted—well, anyone other than Clint, but they talk about all kinds of shit when they’re bored in a sniper nest or on a transport—okay, she would _probably_ never tell anyone without being prompted that she has given serious thought to what her Hogwarts house is, and what her patronus would be.

But right now, sitting at the table in the farmhouse with morning light spilling across Steve’s face as he hands around the pancakes to Thor, while Clint slowly drinks his first pot of coffee next to the machine and Jane eats bacon with her mouth open... Natasha is very tempted to tell them, out of nowhere, that if she had to produce a patronus to defeat the forces of darkness, this is one of the moments she would think about.

“Thank you for cooking these pancakes, friend Steve,” Thor rumbles as he takes three more off the stack and hands the plate to Jane. “They are like ambrosia to me at this hour.”

Jane grabs two pancakes and starts trying to make a bacon-pancake sandwich with them. Tiny droplets of maple syrup have splattered all over her NASA tshirt. “Haf oo em—” she swallows— “have you ever actually _had_ homemade pancakes before? Like, made by someone other than a line cook? Don’t tell me you have pancakes on Asgard, I don’t remember seeing any.”

“Hey, don’t answer that question,” Steve interrupts, laughing. “A guy likes to feel special about his pancakes, y’know?”

“Steve,” Natasha says, “don’t worry. You have the fairest pancakes in the land.”

Steve punches her gently in the arm as he gets up to cook a new batch. There’s a soft rumbling sound outside: another car pulling into the drive. “Keep that up, young whippersnapper, and we’ll see if you get any of this next batch of pancakes.”

“You have to, Rogers,” Clint points out. “Nutritional requirements. You can’t expect Nat to make it through this week-long sexathon without proper nutrition.”

“Pancake nutrition?” Steve says, pouring batter onto the griddle. The sizzling noise somehow goes right to the place in Natasha’s brain that produces happiness. “What kind of essential nutrients do pancakes provide? I don’t remember them being in my army rations.”

“Well, depending on the type of flour and rising agents—” Jane says, and then stops, giggling. “Right. Sarcasm.”

“They provide _sustenance!_ ” Thor booms suddenly, banging his fist on the table, and Steve jumps but everyone else laughs. “Food fit for a warrior returning from combat.” He smiles slyly at Natasha as he says _combat_ , and she winks at him. She slept _so_ well last night. She suspects that Thor didn’t sleep much, but from the looks of it, neither did Jane, in the best way possible.

“Well,” Steve says, with a long-suffering expression, “I’ll be sure to tell Sam. It’s his recipe.”

Natasha can’t resist. “Picked that recipe up over morning-after breakfast, did you?”

Steve flashes her a shit-eating grin. “Jealous, Romanoff?”

“Not if I get to eat my pancakes and Sam Wilson too.” Outside, she hears a car door slam, and smiles when she recognizes the footsteps.

Clint shakes his head and sighs. “None of us are going to survive this week. We are all going to die of sex. God, I hope the obituaries are kind to us.”

“Don’t worry,” Pepper says, clacking through the side door in her stilettos and a pantsuit, “I’ve got a PR team on standby. Oo, _pancakes_ ,” she adds, and swings down into the seat next to Natasha, bogarting a bit of pancake off Natasha’s plate with her well-manicured fingers. “Mm, I love a good pancake. Did you all have seconds already? Steve, are you preparing round three?”

Steve snorts. “Pep, I’m preparing round three, four, and _infinity_ ,” he says, with a meaningful look at Natasha, and for an instant she hesitates, but then she does it—she lets herself blush. It starts at the base of her neck and creeps up her throat and cheeks until her entire face is almost as red as her hair.

Everyone is staring. “Wow,” Pepper says, “I didn’t know you could _do_ that,” at the same time that Jane mumbles around some pancake, “—re super cute when oo blussh.”

Natasha clears her throat. “Well,” she says, feeling warm all over, “it’s good to know we’re all looking forward to Friday.”

*

By the time everyone has been thoroughly aftercared and cleaned and stuffed full of Pancake Nutrient, it’s mid-afternoon. Jane and Pepper, who are in charge of safety for Thursday’s event, head out to the porch with schematics, notebooks, and margaritas. Natasha is a little jealous of the margaritas, but it’s important for her to stay sober right now—too close to tonight’s date. Instead, she goes for a run with Clint, leaving Steve and Thor to spar out back before they clean the house and equipment. Natasha feels a strange glow of pleasure thinking about that which she hadn’t anticipated. She likes the idea of Thor cleaning up all the equipment they used yesterday. It’s not quite a sexual feeling—it’s more that she likes the sense of power it gives her, and the pleasure of her friend doing a kindness for her because he can.

She breathes into the feeling as she runs.

“So. It’s Wednesday,” Clint signs at her as they jog. She rolls her eyes.

“Yeah,” she signs back. “It’s fine.”

He runs a little faster and turns around, running backwards so they can have this conversation face to face. It is, she has to admit, impressive, though she supposes he knows the terrain of the farm well. “It’d be ridiculous if I didn’t worry,” he signs. “You know that.”

“I know that,” she signs exasperatedly. “That’s why we decided to do it here.” Originally, the plan had been to come to the farm just for one night, and hold Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday all at Stark Tower. But after a lot of back and forth between Bruce, Clint, and Steve, it was decided that the farm, being remote, would be safer for civilians if anything went wrong. So: Wednesday.

“Just tell me how you’re feeling about it,” Clint signs, his brow furrowed.

Natasha thinks about this.

“Inexperienced,” she signs, and jogs past him.

  1. **I wondered if things could be different.**



Bruce is late, and Natasha is trying not to be angry about it.

It’s the first real hiccup they’ve had this week, which is, if she’s honest with herself, a miracle. It’s not even that big a hiccup. But Natasha _hates_ when plans fall through or don’t happen the way they ought to, even when—even though—she’s got backup plans. It sets her teeth on edge.

So she’s sitting on the couch in her bathrobe, feeling glad she decided not to change into her clothes yet so at least she’s not feeling _idiotic_ as well as let down, and also angry because she knows Bruce will feel guilty for being late, and she _hates_ Bruce when he feels guilty.

It is not a good start to the evening.

“Hey,” Pepper says, sliding onto the couch next to her. She’s still in her businesswear, but the blazer disappeared at least one margarita ago. She smiles at Natasha, easy and warm, and a little of the icy, tight feeling in Natasha’s jaw dissipates.

She reaches over and takes Pepper’s hand. Her skin is soft, her nails beautifully manicured, if also unusually short. The thought makes her grin, remembering Monday. “Hey, gorgeous.”

Pepper rubs a thumb over Natasha’s hand. “Anything I can do?”

Natasha sighs. She can hear Steve on the phone in the other room. He’s being very firm but also soft spoken, which means he’s probably talking to Bruce, and Bruce is probably just anxious. She shifts her focus back to Pepper, willing herself not to listen in. “Can we, uh, cuddle for a bit?” Pepper raises her eyebrows, but she doesn’t make fun, which Natasha guesses must take a lot of self-restraint. But then, she lives with Tony.

“We sure as fuck can,” says Pepper, and she sort of rolls bodily onto Natasha, ending up with one arm stuck between Natasha’s boobs and the other still awkwardly holding her hand. She smells faintly of tequila. It’s nice.

They sit like that for what Natasha estimates is about twenty-one minutes, and then she wills herself not to count the minutes anymore. Then they shift positions. They sit a while longer.

A truck pulls up outside.

“Hey,” Pepper says, as Natasha’s whole body tenses. “You don’t have to do this. You can tell him to fuck off. Or I will.”

“I know.”

“I’m just saying.”

“I know. Thanks.” Natasha leans up and kisses her softly on the forehead. “You’re a doll.”

Pepper smirks. “You’ve been spending too much time with Steve.” And then she wiggles up from the couch, striding off toward the porch.

There’s a muffled conversation outside, and then Bruce comes in.

Natasha sees herself through his eyes for a moment: face blank, arms crossed, clad in a ridiculous lavender bathrobe that belongs to Clint, sitting alone on a couch that was definitely, as of an hour and a half ago, intended for two.

Bruce winces, hands in pockets. “Uh. Is it worth saying anything, or should I go?”

The table lamp casts a warm glow over his plaid shirt, his stupid torn jeans, his stupid twisted-up face. Natasha feels a surge of exasperation at her persistent fondness for this man. He is the definition of a hot mess. Worse, he’s unpredictable, which is the one thing Natasha hates most.

But she doesn’t hate Bruce. She can’t. He’s one of her favorite people in the whole world, and that’s a short list.

“Don’t go,” she says at last. She unfolds her arms and pats the couch.

He sits stiffly, exactly where Pepper was sitting, and the contrast is stark. He looks more uncomfortable in jeans and a work shirt than anyone has ever looked in business wear; he has none of Pepper’s warmth and confidence. But he smells like good aftershave and his eyes twinkle the way they always do, and Natasha knows, in a wash of feeling, that she’s definitely going to fuck this guy.

“I’m sorry,” he says, rubbing his face with his hands. “I’m so sorry. I even left two hours early so I wouldn’t be late. And then I hit traffic, and I got so _worried_ , and I just...”

Natasha suddenly gets it. “You were afraid of—”

“—the other guy, yeah,” Bruce finishes. “It’s been so good lately, I forgot how anxious I can get. I forgot that even good things make me anxious, sometimes. And then I was on the highway, and there were so many _people_ and _vehicles_ , and it took me forever to find a place to pull over and meditate, and meditating took longer than usual too. Then I got back on the road and saw I had nine missed calls from Steve.” He looks up at her with a hangdog expression. “Basically I’m late because I was too excited to see you and I fucked it up, and jesus, that’s pathetic, isn’t it.”

He was late because he wanted to be safe. She rolls the thought around as she watches him. He’s rubbing his hands together worriedly, his mouth pursed in that rueful expression he wears so often. God, he has a gorgeous mouth.

“It’s a little hilarious,” Natasha says slowly, in a flirtatious alto, “but it’s not pathetic.”

Bruce’s eyebrows go up, like he can’t believe there’s still hope this might work out. “No?”

She smiles. “No.” And then, because she’s pretty sure only cutting right through will work on this particular Gordian knot, she leans over and kisses Bruce, tongue and all.

She feels an instant of shock, followed by his sudden grip on her arm, as if he wanted to push her away, keep her safe from whatever his body might do without his control, and then—nothing happens. And after nothing happens, in the instant they can both tell it’s going to be okay, Bruce suddenly _groans_ and sinks into the kiss, pressing against her hard. His mouth is every bit as lush as she imagined, full and soft and so _giving_ , opening to let her all the way inside, and he kisses with all the pent-up passion she’d known was underneath the surface. She can’t _wait_ to get in his pants. He’s so filled with fire.

Natasha breaks the kiss first, tipping her head back enough to look him in the eyes. He’s panting, his pupils wide.

“Brown,” she says, half to herself. “They’re still brown.”

They stare at each other for a moment.

“Well,” Bruce mumbles awkwardly, with the hunched posture of a man concealing a boner, “I guess I should get changed, then.”

“I guess we should both get changed,” Natasha says.

*

“Did you remember your textbook?”

Bruce grins at her and produces it from his backpack: an ugly, battered red book with the words _Introductory Nuclear Physics_ printed simply on the front. The corners are worn and some pages have been folded in. Natasha knows right away that this isn’t a prop—it’s his actual college textbook.

He lifts his chin at her. “You?”

Nat never went to college—not in a way that would suit this scene, anyway—so she had to borrow. She holds up the book Jane loaned her: _Quantum Mechanics, Volume I_.

Bruce nods, and then he blushes slightly. Within the context of the scene, the conceit is that he’s supposed to be helping her study. Because Steve played middleman for the negotiations, she never knew whether that conceit was merely a helpful excuse or an actual feature for enjoyment. Now, looking at Bruce as he pads over to the couch with a pencil held between his teeth, book in one hand and backpack in the other, she suspects that his service-bottom side is really into the idea of helping her learn physics.

It makes her want to kiss him and make him blush. But that’s for later. She has to be patient.

Usually, Natasha likes a little more formality to the start of a scene, but this one feels natural: the house is quiet except for Steve and Pepper chatting quietly upstairs and the crackle of the low fire in the grate, just like the common room in a dorm might be. The side lamps throw a warm light on their faces and textbooks, enough to read by, but dim enough to be romantic. They’re both wearing some approximation of college kid clothes: Bruce has on sweatpants and a worn-in tshirt that says UNM in faded capitals. Pepper took Nat shopping for this, and now she’s glad, looking down at her pink zip-up Victoria’s Secret hoodie, black tank, and cupcake-printed flannel pajama pants. She even bought things to wear underneath.

They sit side by side on the couch, elbows bumping occasionally as Bruce turns pages and Natasha scribbles answers onto a sheet of ruled notebook paper with a mechanical pencil. She finds that the mental exercise is enjoyable after all; she’s sure some of her answers are wrong, but the text is reasonably easy to follow.

Then she hits a question which genuinely makes her frown.

“Problem?” Bruce looks up hopefully.

Natasha purses her lips. “Maybe. I’m not sure exactly what this question is asking...”

“Sure. Let’s review the previous diagram.”

He leans in a little close, not quite touching her, but close enough that she can smell him and feel the heat of his body. Bruce’s resting body temperature is above the human average; it’s a comforting reminder that the person next to her isn’t just some interchangeable guy, but her friend. Someone she trusts.

As he explains the physics, she lets herself lean a little bit toward him, pretending not to notice the contact, the way young people do. Neither of them looks up from the book, but his breath hitches when their shoulders rub together.

“But that’s not how the previous question worked,” she says. “Look. Didn’t I do that one right?” She pushes the textbook toward him, shifting her weight so that their knees are touching too.

Bruce coughs. He’s definitely blushing. “Sure, let me look. Yeah—you did this one right, but only because this piece of the equation happens to cancel out. It doesn’t always do that. Let’s look at this variable—I—” He stops talking and looks up.

Natasha smiles at him. “Yes?”

He looks _so guilty_. “I’m sorry,” he says, and now his face is really pink. “When you lean over like that, I can, um, see down your shirt.”

She bites her lip, trying to decide whether this version of her would play it coy or just go for it. But she’s enjoying the tease, so she chooses coy. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she says, lifting a hand to her chest. “Here, I’ll cover it.” She puts together the zipper and slides it up—slowly, slowly, her lips parted. She can feel his gaze. It’s starting to make her wet. “Better?”

He swallows. “Sure.”

“What were you saying about the equation?”

Bruce blinks, clearly having _actually_ forgotten the physics he was talking about, and god that’s hot. “Um. The equation. Right! The equation, uh, doesn’t always cancel out. If this variable isn’t held constant, for example...”

While he talks, Natasha fidgets, slowly adjusting so that her knees rub back and forth against his, or her shoulder against his back as he bends over the textbook. Finally she does a whole-body readjustment so that she can sit with her thigh pressed against the whole length of his thigh. His body temperature has risen; he’s starting to sweat. She isn’t sure, but from the way he’s uncomfortably shifting, she thinks he’s hiding his erection. She smiles to herself. What would a college student say in this situation?

“Do you have a boner right now?” she says, and Bruce practically jumps.

“What?” He’s frozen. He looks every inch the panicked undergraduate.

Natasha shrugs. “I dunno, just... the way you’re sitting.” She gives him a half-smile. “Plus, you were staring at my boobs.”

“Not on purpose!” Bruce says. “Uh, I mean, not that anyone _wouldn’t_ want to stare at your—oh god. What’s the right answer to this?”

“Well,” Natasha says, “I didn’t really ask you here to help me with physics.”

It’s a tiny thing, but she can actually _see_ his pupils dilate infinitesimally.

Bruce looks panicked and hopeful at the same time, his beautiful mouth open in surprise. “You didn’t?”

She decides that College Natasha would just go for it. That lush mouth is too tempting. “I didn’t,” she says, and leans in until she can feel his breath, and waits for him to meet her there.

His kiss is totally different from what it was before: tentative, soft, lips closed. He pulls back, and then he does it again, his fingers ghosting the back of her neck, under her hair. As if she might be delicate. As if he doesn’t know quite what to do.

When they pull back, she raises her eyebrows at him. “Don’t you want to?”

“Don’t I want to _what_ ,” he says, a little breathless.

In their negotiations, Steve came back with a hard line from Bruce: _absolutely no sex without explicit consent._ Natasha felt a strange disappointment when she read that. In her head, the fantasy was fluid, discussionless: they simply melted into each other, joining seamlessly, innocently. At the time, adding in a lot of chatter about it had felt—cumbersome. Not the sweet college fantasy she wanted. But limits mattered, so she sent Steve back with an _Okay_.

Now, feeling herself get wetter as everything becomes more drawn out, Natasha discovers that all the chattering fits the fantasy after all. Talking about something you were desperate to do could turn just about anything into dirty talk. And it could make things feel more real, too: college kids only fell into beautiful romantic sex in the movies. Real life was awkward and nervous and sweaty. Like Bruce.

“I thought maybe you could help me lose my virginity,” she says, and Bruce’s fake gasp looks so practiced that she lets herself giggle a little bit.

“You—help you—”

“I mean, I’ve _done_ stuff before,” she says, trying to imagine what College Natasha would count as losing her virginity or not. “Touching. With clothes on, and stuff.”

“Sure. Okay. Who hasn’t,” Bruce says, and winces.

She pounces on it. “That’s what I mean. You’re a senior, you must have been with tons of girls. You could... make it good. For my first time.”

Bruce coughs. “Uh. I’m not sure if maybe you got me confused with someone on the football team? But um.” He wipes his hands on his thighs, accidentally brushing her leg, and he jerks the hand back. “I think you got the wrong guy.”

“No I don’t.” Natasha scoots forward. She’s practically sitting in his lap at this point. “I mean, if you don’t want to—”

“No!” Bruce fairly shouts. “I mean, yes. Yes, I want to. But. You should know that, uh.” He’s clearly finding it hard to concentrate with her so close. Natasha wants to tip her head forward and—to hell with it, she does it, just opens her lips and starts licking softly at the side of his neck. Bruce _groans_ and puts his hands on her shoulders, pushing her away.

“God, you have no idea how good that feels. But listen. I’m not. Um.” He takes a deep breath. “I’ve never been with a girl before.”

Natasha lets him see the surprised face she’s been practicing. She intentionally made it look a little stiff, just to see if she could get him to laugh. He doesn’t quite, but she can see the laugh building.

“But you’re so _hot_ ,” she says, and that does it. Bruce laughs, full and loud and awkward, and she laughs too, enjoying the warm glow in her chest.

“Listen,” she says, laying a hand on his heart, “I didn’t just pick you because I figured you had some sort of special sex powers.” It’s as close as she can get to saying what she really means while staying in character; she wants the plausible deniability in case Bruce finds this hard to hear. It’s clear he can tell she’s serious. He’s holding her gaze, sitting quite still, though his posture remains relaxed.

She holds her hand against his chest while she talks. “I picked you because I think you’re cute. And smart. And funny.” She risks a little kiss after she says this, and he lets her, even kisses her back. She smiles. “I picked you because I _like_ you, Bruce.”

He closes his eyes. Maybe that was a little too much. But he nods, listening.

“So—if you like me too, then... do you want to be my first? And I’ll be your first?”

Bruce takes her hand from his chest, lifts it to his lips, and kisses her fingertips. “Yeah. Yes. I do.”

For a moment, they just look at each other, happy and uncertain; and then, slowly, Bruce moves his hands to her waist and _pulls_ her into a kiss, covering her mouth with those soft, full lips. She reaches her arms up and curls them around the back of his neck. It’s a good kiss, especially with the way he’s almost lifting her toward him, which gives the kiss a lot of pressure. She feels almost suspended from his neck, and she’s suddenly conscious of how big his body is compared to her own, even when he’s just Bruce in his sweats and not the other guy.

They just kiss for what feels like a long time, nipping at each other’s lips to see if they like it, letting their tongues slide in and out. Bruce’s hands start to wander upward, his thumbs tracing the curve underneath Natasha’s breasts, and she moans. She didn’t expect the anticipation to feel so good.

“Let me—” she says, unwinding her arms, and she unzips her hoodie. Bruce glances down and up again, and then remembers he’s allowed to look, and watches as she pulls the tank off too.

“Oh god,” he says appreciatively. Natasha bought the hoodie as an afterthought; the real Victoria’s Secret purchase was a matching bra and underwear set in neon blue lace, which was the sort of thing she figured College Natasha would have liked to lose her virginity in.

He looks hungry for it, but Bruce takes his time. He traces his fingertips softly over Natasha’s shoulders and collarbone, not so lightly that it tickles, but gently. His hands aren’t as rough as she expected; but then, she remembers, he doesn’t scar. She does, though.

She tries not to think about all the scars he must be looking at, and for that instant, the illusion breaks.

“Hey.” His hands have stopped moving; she refocuses. “You went somewhere else, there. Want to stop?” He’s carefully ambiguous, she notices; she could take that as an in-scene question and keep going, or an out-of-scene question, and... stop.

Natasha shakes her head. “Sorry. I’ve just—” She doesn’t want to give him some cliché like _I’ve never been naked in front of anyone before_ because she wants to acknowledge that he read her correctly, that he was right to ask. “I’m just worried you won’t like what you see. When you can see me.”

Bruce hums thoughtfully. He lets his fingers trace a scar that runs right down her sternum, in between her breasts. She shivers. “Neither of us are bringing any history to this,” he says quietly. “Just you and me, for the first time.”

She closes her eyes, grateful. “Yes.”

He explores her in earnest. She feels his tongue tracing the scar next, bottom to top; he laves her neck, bites at her earlobes, and his hands cup her breasts and carefully lower the straps of her bra. She feels a brief flash of annoyance at this, in the middle of being aroused, and then she realizes that he’s sticking to his part: this is exactly what young, inexperienced men do with a bra. Bruce knows that he should undo the clasp. College Bruce is going to wait for her to do it. She sighs, amused despite herself.

“The authentic experience, huh,” she says as she reaches behind her back to unclasp the bra, and she feels him smile against her skin.

Bruce works over her nipples for so long that she loses track of time: pinching, rubbing, licking, a little sucking; he surprises her by asking if he can bite them, and she agrees, not caring whether it’s in character or not. The feeling of his teeth on her nipples as he lays her out on the couch and settles between her legs is positively exquisite.

“All right, buster,” she says at last, “fair’s fair.” She tugs at his tshirt, and he helps her pull it over his head.

God. There’s no mistaking Bruce for a man of twenty. The hair on his chest is wild and going quickly grey; he’s got the powerful, stocky look of a man who’s lived more than a few decades, with fat over thick muscle. She wants to rake her nails down his back.

“Can I be a little rough?” she says, and he nods.

When she scratches him, the sound he makes sends a bolt of terror through her. It isn’t a Hulk sound, not really, but it’s so purely animal that it reminds her powerfully of how dangerous Bruce is. He’s watching her scratch him, staring at her, so she can see his eyes: brown, still brown. But almost black, now, because they’re dilated so wide.

She digs her nails into him a while longer, seeing what noises she can pull out of him. When she pinches his nipples, he groans. She can feel him getting very hard against her leg.

“I,” Bruce says, between groans, “can we be naked now, please?”

“Not before you appreciate my underwear.”

Bruce strips entirely; his cock bounces when he pulls off his sweats, and she realizes he wasn’t wearing anything underneath. She imagines how it must have felt to have his hard cock rubbing up against the soft, giving fabric of his sweatpants, so close to her. She feels a rush of wetness between her legs.

“Now you.” He looks greedy for it.

She smiles. “I’m serious about the appreciation. Look.” She wiggles her pajama bottoms down and tosses them to the floor. Then she leans back so he can look. She’d loved the way the color was so bright against her skin.

To her surprise, Bruce lifts his hand to his cock and starts stroking.

She feels her face heat. “What are you doing?”

“I’m appreciating.” His voice is almost a growl. “Am I doing it right?”

“Yeah.” God, that’s hot. The sight of him, working himself for her, because of her— “Yes. Keep going.”

“You look so good,” he says, speeding up his hand. “I want to be inside you. I want to give you all of this. Every inch.”

Her breath hitches; she lets her own hand drift down to her underwear and slips her fingers inside the band. She’s absolutely _soaked_ , god. She starts rubbing her clit, never taking her eyes away from Bruce’s face. “Yeah. I want you to fuck me, Bruce. I’m so wet for you right now you can probably see it soaking through my panties. Can you?”

Bruce’s eyes flick down to her crotch, and he groans. “Yes. God.”

“Do it,” she says. “Let’s do it.”

Bruce turns away to his backpack while she shimmies her underwear off. There’s a familiar package-opening sound, and then he turns back, condom already rolled on. Briefly, she considers whether it would’ve been fun to do it for him, but in her heart of hearts she doesn’t want to wait any longer.

“Okay,” Bruce says, bracing himself over her. “This might hurt a little. You just dig your fingernails into me if you need to. All right?”

She nods, and she feels his hands between her legs: arranging himself so that he can push into her. His breathing is heavy in her ear.

“Oh god,” he says, entering her. “Fuck. _God._ ”

It doesn’t hurt, of course, but she digs her nails in anyway. She imagines the pain: a dull pressure and then a sharp giving way; over quickly, she thinks. That’s how she would want it to be, so that she could enjoy the rest of it.

“What do I feel like?” she whispers.

Bruce slowly slides out and then in again. It feels _dirty_ , languorous and yet deliberate. He’s taking his time about it, letting her feel every inch, like he promised. “Unnh. Wet. Fucking _sopping_ wet.” He dips his head down to whisper in her ear. “Your pussy is so tight,” he says. “You’re so fucking tight around my big fat dick.”  
  
She gasps. This was part of the fantasy she wanted him to deliver, the part that embarrassed her a bit. The embarrassment only makes it hotter now. “Tell me again,” she groans, her voice hitching. He slides in and out of her again, slow, so slow, and it feels absolutely smutty. “Tell me how good it feels.”

“To be the first one inside you?” Bruce whispers. “The first one to feel how tight your little pussy is? How fucking _wet_ you are for me? God. It makes me want to sink my teeth into you.”

“Harder,” Natasha says. “Please. Harder.”

“Oh, but I’m enjoying this so _much_ ,” Bruce says, and chills run up Natasha’s spine. It’s just the right edge of commanding, a little touch that tells her he’ll do her at _his_ pace, not hers, and fuck, _fuck_ , that’s so good.

He ducks his head to kiss her while he slides in and out, that same maddeningly slow pace. He even takes his time with his tongue, licking it over her lips before parting them. She takes out her frustration on his back with her nails, and he hisses in pain and pleasure.

“ _Please_ ,” she says at last, gasping.

Bruce smiles. “All right.”

One hand braced against the couch, he wraps his other arm around her, lifting her; suddenly he feels huge inside her, with all her body weight bearing her down onto him. She wraps her arms around his neck and holds on.

He fucks her fast, powerfully, his thighs flexing and snapping as he pounds into her. She hears herself crying out. Bruce has dropped all pretenses now and is using all the muscle and expertise he possesses; Natasha feels the familiar sensation building with every stroke, and she wonders if she can come without him touching her clit. But it seems unlikely, and that isn’t what she really wants anyway.

“Natasha,” Bruce says suddenly, and it sounds odd—it’s the first time he’s used her name since they started. “I’m gonna come soon. You have to tell me if—”

“Do it,” she says. “Come. Come.”

“Yes,” Bruce gasps, “ _Yes—oh—_ ”

His whole body shakes just before he comes, and then he freezes, pressing her hard against him. She can feel the orgasm run through him.

“Augh,” Bruce says, collapsing over her. “Fuck.” He lifts his head. “Do you want me to play incompetent for this next part?”

Natasha laughs. “No.”

“Thank god,” Bruce says, “because if you don’t mind, I’d like to go down on you until you scream.”

It takes only the barest nod from her before he’s pulling out and lowering himself until his head is between her legs. The touch of his tongue on her clit feels _spectacular_.

“Yes, _Bruce_ ,” she says. “Put your fingers in me, put—yes—” He does it immediately, two fingers and then a third, fucking in and out hard and fast while he works her clit with his tongue. There’s no hesitation now, no tease; he’s giving it to her as hard as he can, sucking at her, lapping, finding _just_ the right spot—

“Oh _god!_ ” She puts her hand in his hair and grips it. “Don’t move. Don’t _move_ , oh god—yes, right there, like that—yes— _Bruce_ —” and then she screams, just lets her whole body give in as she comes, shaking right down to her toes, her fist tight in Bruce’s hair.

When she opens her eyes, the world seems very bright.

“You wanna go again, just say the word,” Bruce mumbles from between her legs.

She looks down. “Again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! (If anyone still is, after so long...) I'm going to try to finish this fic now that I have ideas for the next scene. I bet you can guess who the next chapter will be....

**Author's Note:**

> This is mostly unbetaed, so all mistakes are mine. Inspired by the Avengers 5 things sort-of-a-series which includes:
> 
> [Five Ways to Get In Touch with Your Inner Mild-Mannered Scientist](http://archiveofourown.org/works/429749) by Thingswithwings  
> [Flying Monkeys, or Five Times Thor Engaged in Cultural Exchange](http://archiveofourown.org/works/439454) by Aria  
> [Five Things the Avengers Caught Tony Stark Trying to Put in His Ass](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1057875) by Thingswithwings
> 
> ...so hopefully there's more to come on this fic! :D Thanks for reading!


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